


Funeral For A Friend

by Kaile (rcs)



Category: Ragnarok Online
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rcs/pseuds/Kaile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and as the fire burned down, the chill invaded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral For A Friend

The fire's in the open air, and there are adults and children, all bound by grief as they look at the body on the bundled straw, the flowers that surround him, and watch the first flames consume what was to them a friend, a father, a lover. They're lit by a woman of immense and arcane power who watches and can't decide exactly what she feels, beyond anger. There's a lover, his hands clenched tight at his sides as her anger washes over him in black words and he isn't responding to it at all, the entirety of his mind on the man who could as easily be sleeping as dead in that pyre. He's sick with grief, though the tears are beyond coming, and for the rest of his life he will close his eyes and see those flames as they begin to take from him the body that he can barely believe once housed a soul he loved well beyond anyone else's understanding. Her sharp words sting more than he lets on, but all her ill-wishing can't overcome the stone-wall of ice that seems to have encapsulated him. At the north of the fire, these two stand, and the tension between them is too heavy to penetrate with condolences or anything else.

To the east are the children, all dressed neat and too scared and uncomprehending of the nature of their loss to even fidget. They don't say anything, don't even breathe too loudly, because they don't quite realize yet that the man that they went to for everything-- for scraped knees and bumped heads and stubbed toes-- will no longer be there to soothe their ills. They'll find other people-- the solid young man with the lute who's currently playing off of sheer muscle memory as he sings in a wavering voice, tears dripping down his nose and off his chin to send up little puffs in the dust at his feet, or perhaps the young woman, dancer-lithe as she holds the littlest ones' hands and stares into the fire with emerald eyes, not crying because someone has to keep the children calm and that's her job now, because who else might be so suited? She stays close to the bard, and as he sings, she's thinking of steps she'll use to express the beauty of the life the dead man lived-- all whirling dervish and tender lifts and above all else the silent support a father gives his children, because he was theirs more than any blood can create. Some distance off, a young wife, heavy with child, mourns quietly. Waves of chestnut curls shake with every gut-wrenching sob, and her husband stands beside her, hulking with a lowered head and holding her close. Their eldest is holding the hands of his twin siblings, unsure of exactly what he's feeling but only knowing that the man who would laugh and sing all the children lullabies will be quiet forevermore, mute like him.

Three young people stand to the south, unable to see the woman and the lover over the rising flames. They're apart from the rest not out of distance, but because that's how they've always been-- three who protect from a distance what he had nurtured, because he had held it so dear, and because they too shared that deep love in response to his. The smallest's one's green hair is heavy in her eyes, and her shoulders are braced as if the heaviest thing in the world is on them, and reddish-violet eyes have been steadily streaming since his body was brought in. It's not her first interaction with death, but she is deeply hit by this one in particular. At her side, a brave-faced redhead doesn't cry, but she's on the precipice of it, her jaw set and amber eyes locked on the sky, beginning to darken with twilight. Her gaze is wet and her hand is twined with the crying young woman's, a silent sharing of grief. Standing behind them, one hand on the shoulder of the strong-faced one and the other curled at the nape of the green-haired girl's neck in commiseration, is a tawny-skinned, pale-haired man, looking drawn and tired. He brought the body in, and he doesn't know if the feel of the dead man's blood on his hands will ever go away; the tacky cooling sensation feels like it's still on his hands, still staining his clothes, though he's dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers and there's not a drop of red on him. He tolerates the grip of the redhead's hand on his, the hand holding to the side of his tunic that shakes with each sob. There's an unusual gravity to him, a sadness on his face that speaks of goodbyes and a few regrets he'll never voice.

From the west a single shadow falls over the ember-bright wood of the pyre. She's still young by anyone's standards, her red hair still in pigtails, and she's not even standing, her legs having crumpled under her when the first flames were lit. Her sobs are loud, half of her falling into the heavy shadow of night as the flames begin to die down and bits of half-lit ash lift to the sky, like little orange stars rising to take their place in the deepening blue. No one approaches her, no one comes near her; each time they try, she slaps them away. There is rage in this one, too, deep-seated and achingly pure. She will leave after the last of the ash has cooled, leave the place she's known all of her life with all of her good memories replaced by the memory of being bodily dragged away from the man who sacrificed everything for them. Perhaps her actions will be seen as selfish, on this night, but she sees herself as the most grateful of all, the one who loved him enough to fight to stay with him, and her removal as the greatest betrayal-- of both herself and the man who she had grown up believing was completely invincible and undefeatable, who ended up to be tragically capable of both. As the fire of the sun sinks below the horizon, the only light on her face is fueled by his body. Her face is cast in shadows almost as dark as the resentment building in her heart and the path she'll walk when she leaves this place.

In the center of this circle of hearts upon whom he has left indelible marks sleeps a man, the sleep of someone whose own heart has stopped beating, whose skin has grown first cold with loss of vitality and then hot with flames. He's laid out in clean clothing, cleaned and combed and he looks more well-kempt than he had in life, adding an extra sense of unreality to everyone's memory of this night. He gave everything up to save what he loved, and his hands will never hold a blade again, his smile will never flash bright in his face. He'll never scoop up a crying child, never bicker with his employer or kiss his lover or advise his older children. He'll never bounce the still-unborn child in the young wife's belly on his knee, never sing another song in a language no one else understands. He won't carve cunning little toys and leave sawdust on the floor, never be the mountain behind which the scared newest ones hide. But he'll always be with every person who knew him, always shining bright in their memory. He'll inspire great things. He'll be the parent that mother will strive to be, his mother-tongue songs will be sung to the children by a young bard who doesn't know exactly what they mean but will add his own feelings to them. His love will be in every step the dancer makes. His strength will add itself to every strike the trio make to protect what he loved most. And in the courtyard, standing on through rain and wind and happiness and sorrow and weddings and funerals, perhaps soft with moss or clean and bright as the day as it was set, his name and memory will be emblazoned and centered in the very place he'd loved so dearly: "Balthasar".


End file.
